Apples Don't Stray
by mousefiction
Summary: Guilt and pain wrapped up in a hefty dose of painkillers and ice.  Dean was right: they should have gone to Vegas.  Sick!Sam bigbrother!protective!hurt!Dean  Follows Benders.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The avatar on my profile is a picture I drew based on a scene from this fic, so if you wanna look at it, have at it. I'd put it on DeviantArt or something, but last time I went there my computer got attacked by a virus. Proofed by Twilightrayne.  
_

_Follows Season one's the Benders, but also mentions stuff from Home, Asylum, Scarecrow, Faith, Route666, and Nightmare. _

_Sick!Sam and Protective,Bigbrother!Dean. (Guilt and pain all around, though, considering the episode that it's attached to.) _

_Disclaimer: Owned by Kripke (does Gamble own it now too?); no profits being made by me. _

_Thanks to K Hanna Korossy for pointing out the formatting mistake!  
_

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Heat billowed in puffy, white wisps throughout the cramped motel bathroom; the vapor swirled against the heavy shower curtain and weighed down the air, rendering the oxygen thick and difficult to swallow. Sam placed a hand on the slippery tile in front of him and leaned his weight into the appendage, the tilt in his stance allowing the scaling water to rush in a torrent down his back and over the muscles beneath his tanned skin. Despite the warmth encasing him, Sam shivered slightly when a chill crawled up his spine, rejecting the heated droplets of water beading over his body. Sam straightened when his eyes landed on his hand and the reddish-brown substance caked underneath his nail's surface.

Dean's blood.

Sam winced. As a hunter, Sam had long ago been accustomed to the sight of blood, but there was a deep and fundamental emotional difference between the spilt blood of a stranger and the wasted blood of a loved one: It was the sight of Dean's blood that would always make Sam's stomach churn sickeningly within his gut_. "Must'a gotten there while I was bandaging him up,"_ he thought quickly as he immediately coated his fingers with a thick layer of soapy lather and rinsed the digits clean.

The laceration torn across his older brother's forehead hadn't been too deep, and although he'd been thrown around like a rag doll while searching for a key to free his caged little brother, Dean had been able to walk away from the cannibalistic hunter's backwoods home bruised and abused, but not terribly broken.

Sam shook his head as he cut off the water from the shower nozzle and wondered, _"Maybe Dean is right, maybe I am rusty."_ He paused, _"At least with people."_ And wasn't that just soaked in irony: After the men had followed Missouri's lead in purifying their old house in Kansas, Sam had been able to sense the dark presence still lingering in the home; and while Sam was still haunted by the memory of being jumped by Sanford Ellicott at the Roosevelt Asylum, Sam was still able to get to Dean in time before his big brother had been sacrificed to the scarecrow god dwelling within the apple orchids of Burkesville, Indiana. The stint with the Faith Healer awhile back hadn't been perfect: Dean had been cured, but the price had been an innocent's life; either way, Sam was able to release the Reaper from Sue Ann's binding spell before it got to Dean. Sam, with Dean's help, had also been able to purify the monster truck terrorizing Cape Girardeau in general and Cassie's family in particular by guiding Dean to lead the vengeful truck to the hallowed remains of a church. Of course, Sam wasn't acting alone with his successes: Dean had been beside him the entire way, fighting and momentary departures between the men not withstanding.

But, as of late, Sam had not met the same streak of luck with people, starting with Max Miller: although he was able to save Dean from getting a bullet to the head, Sam wasn't able to rescue Max from himself. And now, Sam had let a bunch of psycho, hillbilly-rednecks get the jump on him at some biker bar in Hibbing, Minnesota. _"And Dean's the one who paid the price,"_ Sam internally chastised himself as he quickly dressed and exited the humid bathroom.

"Hey, Princess, I was beginning to think you drowned in there," Dean said tiredly as he zipped up his duffle.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked incredulously, ignoring his brother's playful jibe. "I just got finished patching you up: you need to take it easy for awhile before we hit the road."

"Look, Sam, you heard Kathleen: state police and the feds are gonna be swarming all over this town. After what happened in Saint Louis, _here_ isn't the greatest place for us to be."

Sam's eyebrows creased. "For one, everyone thinks you died there, Dean, and two: Kathleen let us off the hook, so it's not like she's gonna blow our cover now," Sam explained as he pushed the duffle bag away from his brother's reach. The glare that Dean aimed at Sam was unsettling to say the least, but Sam could see straight through the mock-threat: his brother was tired and hurting. "You need to rest, Dean," Sam finished, placing a hand on his older brother's shoulder and applying enough gentle pressure to get him to sit on the side of his motel bed. The fact that Dean let Sam guide him down was enough to let Sam know how exhausted his brother was feeling.

"Yeah, fine," Dean conceded a few long seconds later. "But we leave at dawn, and that's all I'm giving you. Take it or leave it."

Sam nodded as the corner of his lips curled at his victory, but the slight smile disappeared quickly when Dean brought one arm up to cradle his abused side, eyebrows furrowing. Sam was reaching for their first aid kit instantly. "You need more painkillers?"

Dean leaned his head against the bed's backboard and shook his head carefully. "What? Naw, man: I take anymore of that crap and I'll land in a drug-induced coma. That happens? We'll never be outta here by dawn."

At that, Sam sat at the foot of Dean's bed and held out the medicine bottle to his brother. "If you need it you should take it."

Dean's gaze went from the small bottle to his kid brother's face. "Dude: nothing's broken, chill out. If you feel like taking care of someone, put some ice on that bruise you got going on there," Dean stated, motioning to the side of Sam's face with one hand, while the other hand tossed Sam a fluffy rag filled with ice. "You were taking so long in the bathroom I was startin' to think it'd melt and I'd have to make another trip to the ice machine."

Sam's eyebrows instantly shot up and his hands fell to his lap; a frown pulled at the muscles in his face. "_Another_ trip? Damn it, Dean. I told you take it easy before I went to take a shower."

Dean gave his brother a purposely lame look. "So?"

Sam's mouth dropped, "So? So what?"

Dean used his socked foot to nudge the hand Sam was using to hold the makeshift ice pack and responded, "So, I'm older: I don't have to do what you say. Now put that on your face. You look like you're gonna swell into a balloon." Dean looked away once The Bitch Face was aimed, full force, at his direction. "Come on, Sam, don't be like that. I told you I was going to get ice."

A confused look planted itself across Sam's face as he gently placed the icepack against the tender flesh underneath his eye. "What? No you didn't."

"Yes, I did. Right when you were walking into the bathroom just a few minutes ago." Dean's eyes did a head-to-toe sweep of his kid brother and added, concerned, "Man, you must'a been more outta it than I thought. You sure you're okay?"

"_Must be getting' a little rusty, there, kiddo."_

Sam turned from his brother as guilt pounded in his chest. "Yeah, I'm fine," was the quiet answer, but when he caught Dean rubbing the bare skin just below the bandaged burn mark, Sam added, "Look, Dean. I'm sorry about all this-."

"Whoa," Dean cut his brother off quick. The back of his head was throbbing; his forehead stung, and his collar bone still felt like it was on fire, not to mention his sides were almost as stiff as a tree branch: he didn't have the patience for a chick flick right now. "You didn't do anything."

"Dean, that's sort of the point-," Sam tried, but was cut off again.

"Hey," Dean said as he threw his brother the TV remote, "If you wanna fill the silence, then turn on the news. I wanna see what they're saying about what happened."

"So, first you wanna get out of here to avoid the feds, now you wanna watch the feds on the news?" Sam asked as he glared at his brother.

Rolling his eyes, Dean let out, "Am I speaking a foreign language to ya, Sammy?"

This time, Dean didn't even bother trying to dodge The Bitch Face, and he and Sam had a stare down that lasted less than it took for Sam to give up fighting his older brother and turn on the TV.

"You're such a jerk, Dean," Sam spit out, causing a smile to cross Dean's face.

"C'mon, I'm a joy to be around and you know it. Bitch," Dean tossed back; when Sam didn't grace him with a comeback, Dean settled against the headboard and glanced at the TV. Or, rather, he tried to: Sam's broad shoulders happened to be blocking his view_. "You're doing that on purpose!"_ he thought. "Hey! You're in the way of the TV, Sasquatch: I can't see over your big-ass-self," Dean half-complained, half-joked with Sam, but when he pushed his foot against his brother's back to get him to move, Sam bowed and let out a curse between clenched teeth.

"Dude?" Dean started, surprised. "What the hell was _that_?" he asked as he sat upright, wincing as the movement pulled at his burnt skin and bruised side. Sam's hand shot out and landed on Dean's shoulder, halting his big brother's forward momentum.

"Dean, calm down, my back just sort of aches, I guess. It's no big deal."

Dean stared at his brother, "No big deal? All I did was push at you and you acted like I broke your spine!"

A burst of pink panned out across Sam's face. "Dean, you're overreacting," Sam shot back, but Dean ignored him: he swiped his kid brother's hand from his shoulder and reached out, lifting the back of Sam's shirt.

"Did those freaks throw you around, too, Sammy?" Dean asked as he inspected his brother's back, looking for bruises.

"Dean, I spent a couple of days locked in an iron cage that was half my size: what do you expect?" he asked seriously.

_"Well, that answers that,"_ Dean thought as he let Sam's shirt drop. Picking up the painkiller bottle that had been lost in the throes of the bed's comforter, he tossed it at Sam. "Take some of that; you need to rest your back. 'Would suck if it seized up in the Impala."

Sam cringed, having been stuck in the Impala with a bad back more than a few times during his short life time. "Dude, it's not that bad; 'should be better in the morning."

"Uh-huh," was the only response Dean gave him, and when Sam settled on the end of Dean's bed to watch the news unfold, Dean leaned his weary body against the motels' thick pillows and, instead of settling his gaze on the flickering lights emanating from the small, glass screen, kept his eyes on his baby brother.

It was cold.

A shiver rain up Dean's spine as he stood in the damp, dilapidated barn; dust floated in the cool breeze that crept through the cracks in the wooden walls, and the rancid smell of human waste and sweat hung heavily in the air. Goosebumps peppered his freckled skin, but not because of the cold atmosphere and moisture ridden surroundings: two large metal cages loomed in front of him, each large enough to confine a large, wild animal.

Or a human.

"_Sammy!"_ Sweat gathered on Dean's forehead and his heart pounded in his chest. There was no doubt about it; Sam had been taken here, the only problem: the iron prisons were empty. Blood pooling in small droplets atop the cage's flooring sent Dean's nerves into overdrive, and the adrenaline pumping fast into his system had him out of the barn and sliding up to the old country house so fast he could have sworn the earth rippled like waves beneath his feet.

Lurking along the brush and plastering himself against the shadows hugging the corners of the dilapidated residence, Dean picked up on the sound of movement within the house. Mind racing, his brain kept a running catalog of supernatural beasts that could have up and taken his brother. Sam had been thinking that a phantom attacker had been responsible for the town's long list of missing person reports, but a farm house in the middle of the country wasn't exactly a phantom attacker's M.O. All thoughts of the supernatural fell from Dean's mind when he saw the very human form of a shadow ghost behind the house's curtained windows. "You've got to be kidding me," Dean whispered to himself. The fact that his tough as nails little brother could be caught off-guard by a bunch of country folk baffled Dean; it didn't help matters that Dean was able to decipher the patterns of the supernatural baddies, but the human ones? He was in the dark in that department. And wasn't that ironic. A frustrated growl escaped from Dean's chest and he thought, _"Well, if I can handle demons I can for damn sure handle a few rednecks."_ After all, it wasn't like Dean had never beaten the crap out of anyone who'd been ballsy enough to mess with his Sammy. And with that thought in mind, Dean crept along the house's foundation and breeched the premises through one of the basement's dirt-stained windows.

As soon as Dean's muddied and well-worn boots connected with the cement floor, the smell hit him; the odor was different from the smell lingering in the barn-turned-prison: formaldehyde invaded Dean's lungs and the stench of death hung ominously in the air. Something on top of a rickety, wooden shelf glittered in the darkness when Dean ran his flashlight across the jet-black cellar; curiosity peaked, Dean headed over to investigate, but stopped dead in his tracks once the beam from the flashlight chased way the darkness draped in front of him.

"Yikes."

Brains.

Intestines.

Even a lung.

All stared back at Dean from clear glass containers filled with the repugnant liquid preservative. Dean's hands began to shake slightly when he remembered that the cages in the barn had been empty. _"Sammy...!"_ Dean almost dropped the flashlight when he stumbled back from the disturbing display of human remains, and the movement caused his eyes to catch on the pictures hanging on the iron screening sheeted in front of him. The color drained from Dean's face as he gazed at the trophy pictures. Men camouflaged and posing with the blood and dirt stained corpses of their fellow man, each hunter donning haunting smiles that screamed of psychopathology and a therapy bill that would take centuries to pay off.

Fire bubbled in the pit of Dean's intestines, angered that these people—and Dean used the term generously—had captured his brother to _hunt_ him, but the anger fell away to terror when the blatantly obvious stuck him: the cages were meant to hold the "game" until the time was right for the hunters to begin the sport; Sam had been captured to be a victim of the chase, but both cages in the barn had been empty.

Empty.

Ice flowed through Dean's veins and in an instant each trophy picture had been torn down and examined as Dean searched for one of his baby brother. The image of the blood staining the bottom of one of the cages bit behind Dean's eyes; and, after going through each sickening Polaroid and finding none featuring his kid brother, Dean swept through jars containing bits and pieces of human remains, looking for anything that even resembled his kid brother: his hair, or even his jewelry. Anxiety mounted as his search produced no results. Sam may not have been pickled in a jar in some psycho's basement, but there was also an empty cage polka-dotted with blood. Sam's blood. Frustration and worry consumed him, and fear gripped the very fiber of his being. And, before his brain could register that his muscles were moving, Dean had cleared the shelf in one violent and fell swoop of his well toned arm. Thick glass shattered and formaldehyde spilled out into the room as brains slid beneath Dean's feet, littering the already dirty floor beneath him.

"SAMMY!" Dean's voice boomed through the underground room and exploded into the house above, but he didn't care: Screw stealth mode; when the state of Sam's life _itself _was in question, Dean would always go in with guns blazing.

Always.

Crashing into the house's main floor he bellowed, "If you hurt my brother I will kill you all!" But he stopped cold when he realized that the house was empty: no shadows sliding across the walls, no whispering, and no creaking floor boards. No hillbilly psycho bursting out of the wood work to mount his head on a wall. Confusion buzzed within his skull like a thousand annoying mosquitoes, and dizziness hounded him as if each bug were sucking the blood from his brain. "This doesn't make any sense," Dean said aloud to the vacant dwelling, "….'could have sworn I saw someone in here." Taking a step forward, Dean's boots glided into something wet, causing his form to slip. Looking down to catch his bearings, Dean immediately stopped breathing. Blood pooled against the wooden floor, each droplet collectively streaking a bright red trail to what appeared to be the kitchen.

The flashlight hit the planked floor with a loud _thunk_.

Swallowing, Dean felt something large lodge into his throat as a numb sensation began to climb from his toes to the rest of his body. Time stopped as he slowly put one foot in front of the other, following the path the blood set before him. Each step felt heavy, as if held back by a ball and chain. "Sammy?" Dean called out in a shaky voice as he passed the threshold into the kitchen, but his voice box seized up as soon as his eyes landed on the mass of red and purple gore slopped in the kitchen's sink. Every pore in Dean's body buzzed with what felt like electricity and the mosquitoes swarming inside of his skull began to nest in his shriveled brain. _"There's no way…"_ was the only coherent, yet desperate, thought Dean's boiled brain could muster. But when he spotted a lock of wavy brown hair stuck within the blood and intestines, every protective fiber in Dean's being screamed and then burst.

"_As long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you." _

"_When we were young, I pretty much pulled him from a fire. And ever since then I've felt responsible for him, like it's my job to keep him safe."_

"_Sam's my responsibility and he's coming back. I'm bringing him back."_

But Sammy wasn't coming back, Dean couldn't bring him back. "I didn't bring him back," he whispered to himself. The world whirled around him, blurring his vision and throwing his stance off-balance. Dean's heart pounded relentlessly in his chest, threatening to crack his rib cage, and when his trembling hands landed on the slick surface of a Polaroid, Dean could have sworn his stomach fell to his feet. His baby brother, bruised and blooded, trussed up like a trophy and surrounded by his captors. Despite his deadened nerves, Dean could feel the tears born from overwhelming rage and suffocating despair slip down his pale face. Emptiness ate out his insides like a bloated parasite as the eldest Winchester sibling stared at the lifeless face of his brother, the man that he had sworn to protect. The child that he had raised. A devastating need to touch his brother chased at the emptiness consuming Dean's core, and Dean found himself sinking his hands into the slop of Sam's remains, willing himself to feel the warmth that defined his brother, but the only sensation to grace Dean's nerve endings was a cold and sick, soupy sensation of slick tissue and thick blood.

"_As long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you." _

"No," Dean's trembling voice squeaked out as he fisted his brother's innards within his large hands. The hands that used to hold his brother, used to playfully jibe his brother in the shoulder when he was feeling down. The hands that had carried his baby brother from the fire in his nursery were now the hands that held the dismembered intestines of that baby.

Failure.

"SAMMY!"

Dean's eyes shot open.

Dean immediately turned his head to the bed furthest from the door in search of his brother, and when he found it empty his heart jumped.

"Sammy?" he called aloud as he tried to sit up, but pain flared in his side and the burn on his chest stung, causing him to slump back down into the pillows. The frustrated growl brewing in his chest was quickly swallowed when he felt something warm shift at his feet. A sigh of relief automatically escaped Dean's lips: Sam. Planting both hands on the mattress, Dean gingerly lifted himself up, breathing through the discomfort blossoming in his abused muscles. Even though it was a dream, the need to make sure Sam was safe itched at Dean's nerves. Once upright, Dean cocked an eyebrow at his brother: The younger sibling had fallen asleep on the end of the bed, his cheek resting on his older brother's ankle. _"Alright, that's weird. He must'a been tired,"_ Dean thought as he gently rotated his ankle side to side. The motion tilted his brother's head back and forth slightly, Sam's wavy hair brushing against Dean's foot. "Well, aren't you just a giant puppy?" Dean whispered tiredly but affectionately, but he frowned when he felt heat from his brother's cheek radiate through his thin socks, warming his feet. When the men had returned from the police station with the Impala, both had been soaked with rainwater and chilled to the bone. Dean had turned up the motel room's heat as soon as he had walked through the door so both of them would be warmer when Sam patched him up; shivering hands aren't the best to use when applying stitches, especially when said laceration was located above an eye. But now with Sam's warmth leaking into his skin, the temperature within the room had gone from toasty and satisfying to bordering on sweaty and uncomfortable. Still, Dean would not move his brother. For one, with his aching muscles, Dean would be unable to carry him; more than that, Dean left his brother at the foot of his bed, using his leg as a pillow, because Sam's weight was comforting to him: The gentle pressure of Sam's face to his skin was a reminder that his brother was safe. Sam wasn't in the middle of B-F nowhere, rotting in a cold, dark cage waiting to be hunted and mounted on a wall; Sam's intestines were not fermenting in a sink in some rundown backwoods cabin. Remembering the nightmare that had assaulted him but a few minutes ago sent a shiver rippling through Dean's muscles and an unsettling feeling wormed its way into his gut: It was disturbing that Sam, in the short amount of time it took Dean to take a leak, had been stolen from his older brother. Having listened to the patriarch of the family that had taken his brother describe how the art of human hunting had been passed down their family for generations, Dean figured it wasn't all that surprising that they'd acquire excellent stealth and hand to hand combat skills. Even the youngest child of the family, Missy, had been quick and vicious when she had confronted him, so much so that he and Sam had to lock her in the closet in order to subdue her.

"_As long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you." _

Dean sighed; picking up the ice pack that had slipped from his brother's grasp, he tucked it gently against Sam's swollen cheek and said to his sleeping brother, "Guess you aren't the one who's getting rusty after all." Leaning back against the headboard Dean thought, _"We really should have passed this place and gone to Vegas instead."_

* * *

_A/N: I want to mention that if the piece where I mention stuff from Asylum and Scarecrow seems a bit one-sided, that's because it's coming from Sam's own viewpoint and he's used it to describe the decline he's imagined he's experienced. I realize I didn't put it in thought italics since he wasn't saying it to himself. I know that Dean had a hand in those episodes' successes and I like both men equally; that's why both are having a guilt trip. And that was weird to say. _

_Twilightrayne is doing an awesome Supernatural fic called Outlet, so check it out. I've been pestering him about doing a fic for this fandom for awhile and am pushing him in the hurt!Sam direction ;). So give him some love (and I guess help me coax him more into the hurt!Sam thing)._

_This fic is basically complete. I'm working on the last chapter, but due to my damn class that's eating up all my time, I figured I might as well go ahead and start posting while I have time. _

_Constructive reviews welcome. _


	2. Chapter 2

**_EDIT: Hi everyone, I had chapter three uploaded yesterday, but it has been removed. I'm hoping noone stole it, because then I can't finish the fic! If it is actually there and for some reason my computer isn't loading it, will you PM me and tell me please? I sent the site an e-mail, but if anyone has any advice I'd be grateful!_**

**_EDIT/EDIT: _****It's been fixed. What a scare. :(**  


_A/N This chapter was inspired by and is dedicated to KKBELVIS, who wanted Sick!Sam stuck in the Impala. I know this is not exactly what you had in mind, but I wanted to stick that scenario in this story just because I couldn't figure out any other way to write it. _

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The Impala roared as she devoured the endless blacktop before her, and the trees whizzed by in burled masses of brown and dull green. Sam felt another shiver run down his spine and he twisted slightly in his seat in an attempt to relieve the stiffness creeping into his shoulders. _"Guess sitting in that cage did more damage than I thought." _There was an annoying churning feeling picking at his gut, but that wasn't the only thing that happened to be bothering the youngest Winchester at the moment. "Dean, would you stop staring at me," Sam said flatly as he looked over to the passenger seat, eyes landing on his brother who was leaning uncomfortably against the door.

"You alright?"

Frowning, Sam returned his gaze to the road. "Dean, you got the crap beaten outta you by some giant, cannibalistic hillbillies. _You're_ asking _me_ if I'm alright?" Sam didn't have to glance over at his brother to know that Dean was glaring at him.

"First off, smart ass, I wasn't the only one to do some wrestling with those bumpkins. 'Sides that, look at you: you're all scrunched up behind my baby's steering wheel, and that's about the tenth time in ten minutes that you've rolled your shoulders." Dean's voice was cut off when a gurgling sound vibrated from Sam's belly, causing Sam to slightly wince. "And that," Dean continued, "was gross."

"Yeah, well, I think it's disturbing that you've been keeping track of how many times I've stretched my shoulders. It was the _cage_, Dean."

From his periphery, Sam caught Dean rubbing below the burn mark on his collar again, and he heard the leather seats shift as his brother tried to find a more comfortable position to sooth his sides. Sighing, Sam reached into the back seat and held his hoody out to his older brother. "Put that between the door and your side, it'll help a little." Dean reached for the article of clothing but stopped when he noticed that Sam's hand was trembling slightly. Eyebrows pulled together, Dean didn't take the hoody; instead, he took in the sight of his brother. Dark circles were beginning to form underneath his eyes and his skin was beginning to get flushed.

"Sam, next decent motel we come by we're stopping for the day."

Sam automatically glanced over at the map he had resting on his lap. "Well, that won't be for a while; this is a long stretch of highway. Nothing but fields and cow pastures; civilization is a ways off." Sam paused, "I thought you were hell-bent on getting as far away from Minnesota as possible." Sam sent a worried glance over at his brother and added before turning back to the road, "Did the pain get worse? Want me to pull over so you can lie down in the back?" Sam's stomach chose that moment to voice its distress, and Sam quickly placed a hand on his belly, willing the weird feeling in his gut to die down.

"No, man, it's not for me," Dean said as he raised an eyebrow, watching his little brother cradle his stomach. "I mean, yeah: I'm still sore, but it wasn't as bad as it was yesterday," he lied. "Just pull over; _you're_ the one getting in the back."

Sam's eyebrows shot up and disappeared behind his shaggy bangs. "Dean, my back isn't _that_ bad. I'm driving, you need to rest."

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother's response. "Don't play dumb, Francis. I'm talking about your stomach. And your hands. I cranked up the heat as soon as we left the motel and you're _still_ shaking. Pull over the car and let me drive. I'll find us a place to stay."

Sam sunk further into the driver's seat, indicating to his brother that he had no intention of pulling over and switching seats. "Dean, I'm not sick. My stomach just feels weird after drinking that coffee on an empty stomach." Sam punctuated his defense by tossing the hoody Dean had rejected onto his older brother's lap. He didn't say anything else, but the meaning behind the gesture had been clear: I'm fine, Dean; shut up and go back to sleep.

Dean chuckled to himself, accepting his little brother's challenge. Balling up Sam's hoody, Dean chucked it none too gently into the back seat. _"Two can play this game, Sammy,"_ Dean thought as he carefully slipped his leather jacket off. Sam tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he watched Dean fold up the jacket. He knew that Dean was doing; when he was younger, Dean would stick him in the back of the Impala when he got sick, and he always let Sam use his leather jacket as a pillow. When Dean leaned back to place the jacket on the backseat, Sam rolled his eyes and stubbornly ignored Dean's unspoken command to pull over and lie down in the back.

The gloves were off.

Both sat there in heated silence as each man sought to out last the other, Dean glaring at his brother and Sam staring determinedly out of the Impala's windshield. The rumble of the Impala's engine stretched against the silence as she ate up one mile after another, and when the stubbornness level in the large car threatened to suffocate both brothers, Dean barked out, "Sam, pull the damn car over."

"No."

Dean gawked at him, "It's _my_ car-."

"Yeah? But you're hurt and I'm the one driving it. So chill. I'm okay, Dean, really."

"Sam, you're sick. Get in the back."

The annoyance fairing in Sam's stomach wasn't mixing well with the prickly sensation churning within his gut. "Dean, I'm _not_ sick." The exasperated sigh that bit into Sam's ear from across the Impala told him that Dean was losing his patience with him and fast, but Sam didn't want to give up his seat. He just wanted his older brother to relax while he tried to find a place for them to recoup: Dean had been hurt because he'd been careless enough to get abducted by those hunters; he wanted his older brother to rest, and he couldn't rest stuck behind the wheel of the Impala. "_How can I take care of you when you won't at least let me drive?"_ Sam thought to himself.

"Sam. This conversation? Sounds suspiciously like the ones we had when you were four. Only then I'd be trying to get you to take a nap and you'd keep trying to convince me that you weren't tired." Sam opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Dean beat him to the punch, and bearing his fist to his brother he threatened, "If you say, 'I'm not sick,' I _swear _I'm gonna backhand you."

Sam shot his brother a threatening look of his own and groused out, "Because if I was sick, that'd make perfect sense. Don't hit the driver, Dean: wouldn't want to wreck your baby." A deadly look settled itself on Dean's countenance, but Sam didn't back down and kept himself firmly planted in the driver's seat, eyes glued to the winding stretch of highway in front of him.

A hand coming towards him caught in his periphery and broke him out of his concentration, however, and caused him to reel backwards in surprise, the back of his head colliding with the bench seat. The abrupt motion backwards flipped his already upset stomach and sent a burn ripping through his esophagus, and in seconds flat the Impala was lurching off the road. The sudden change in direction had Dean listing to the side and pain bit into his abused muscles. But when Dean saw Sam's shaking hands fumbling with the door handle he sprung forward, shoved the door open, and quickly folded his brother over. Head shoved between his knees, Sam could barely make out Dean's voice, worriedly calling out his name, as he proceeded to spill hot, acidic liquid from his stomach onto the shoulder. The ground spun in circles underneath Sam's feet and the space within the Impala began to shrink down upon him, suffocating him. Heart pounding in his ears, he slid down the driver's seat and leaned his back against the Impala, one hand steadying himself on the road while the other held back his bangs. Cars whizzed by the highway, sending heated waves of exhaust to puff against Sam's face.

"Sam?" Dean called out as he slammed the passenger-side door closed. The impact of the door hitting the frame rocked the car and Sam with it, causing more bile to spurt from his mouth. Sam felt more than heard his brother kneel beside him, and when Dean pushed Sam's hand from his hair and pulled back Sam's bangs himself, the younger man felt his muscles relax somewhat.

"Geez, Sam. Why'd you freak out like that?"

Sam took a deep breath, wincing when the smell of his vomit clouded his lungs. "I saw your hand. Last thing I thought, 'Crap, is he really gonna backhand me?'" he pushed out, attempting to joke with Dean despite the situation.

Dean gaped at his brother. "What? I wouldn't risk wreckin' my baby like that."

Sam's eyebrows pulled together as he tried to fight off the chills coursing through his aching joints. After a few beats he managed, "But you said…. _I_ said-."

Sam's hoody falling over his shoulder's interrupted him. "And _I_ said I was going to check for fever. And, for you, that somehow translates into me smacking you upside the head. 'Makes perfect sense." Another cramp twisted Sam's gut, and he could feel pieces of half-digested meat catch in his throat as he expelled more vomit from his sickened system. Dean felt his own stomach toss at the sight of the gore, but from disgust, not sickness. "You still bent on convincing me that you're not sick?"

Sam made an attempt to glare at his brother, but quickly gave up. Instead his gravely voice pushed out, "I didn't hear you say," he paused to motion to his forehead, "that you were gonna check for fever."

Dean gave his brother a "No Duh" look and proceeded to pat him on the back, "I figured, just like the ice; it's 'cause you're sick, bro. Now stop talking and get it all out of your system. I don't want vomit stains in the back seat." The firm taps to Sam's back sent more bile splashing against the asphalt, and Sam's stomach quickly clenched, reverting to dry heaving.

After a few retches and a couple of quite curses from Sam, Dean smoothed his hand up and down Sam's back in one slow circuit and said, "Alright, Sammy. Let's get you in the back." Sam's world tilted as Dean gripped his brother under the arms and hefted him up, sandwiching the younger man between himself and the muscle car. The burnt skin on his collar stretched and pain shot up his ribs, but Dean kept a hold on his brother, satisfied that, even though in pain, he could still pick Sam up. As Dean yanked open the back door, he looked over at the mass of bile and half-digested food littering the shoulder and said to his brother, "I thought you said you didn't eat anything this morning, just the coffee."

"I didn't," Dean felt Sam's breath ghost against his neck. "Must have been what they fed me while I was locked up."

"_Best bet that _that_ is why Sammy just spewed his guts everywhere,"_ Dean thought as the image of the family's patriarch, hacking away at the remains of one of his victims, flashed in his mind; Dean didn't bother to tell Sam that he'd probably been consuming the leftovers of Jenkins."Sam?" Dean asked as he pulled his brother from the side of the car and guided him to the back seat. "Next time I say get in the back, just _get in the back_." Placing his hand on Sam's shoulder he pushed his brother onto the seat, but let up when his brother's face twisted in pain and arched his back.

"Ow…. _Shit_," Sam hissed through clenched teeth, stretching his arm behind him to claw at his back.

Pushing himself halfway into the backseat, Dean automatically brushed Sam's hand away and placed his own on his brother's back, "You're back seize up on you?"

The veins in Sam's arms bulged as he dug his fingers into the seat's leather, paling his knuckles to white. Letting out an unstable breath, he nodded, "Yeah. My muscles-."

Before Sam could finish, Dean had wrapped a hand just above Sam's knee and pulled it back; bringing both legs backwards, he gently pushed Sam's back with the other hand, leaving him lying down on his stomach. The movement sent white bursting in his vision; he tried to swat Dean's hand away, but the motion only tightened the muscles in his back and increased the stiffness in his shoulders.

"Dean, _leggo_," Sam's voice box shuttered out as he clasped the front's bench seat in order to brace against the pain spiking up his spine.

"Hold on. Hold on," Dean rushed as he pulled off his brother's hoody and slipped his hands underneath Sam's shirt, kneading the throbbing back muscles tormenting his brother. Sam went stiff instantly, but then relaxed just as fast as his brother ran his hands in soothing circuits along his back and shoulders. Dean chuckled when he heard Sam let out a relieved sigh. "Feel better, kiddo?" Sam's bangs stuck to the sweat on his forehead as he nodded against the leather, but he gritted his teeth when another shudder ripped through his form; and then he heard it: Dean's breath was hitching in his chest.

"Dean!" Sam barked out, placing both hands on the seat to push himself up, but Dean swiped his arms out from under him just as quick.

"Don't do that. You'll end up pullin' something, make it worse."

Sam's stomach rolled and more perspiration bled from his pores as a pounding sensation began to thump behind his eyes, but he didn't stop talking, "Dean, _get off me_: You're going to kill you're sides, or did you forget what happened yesterday?" Sam felt a grating mix of frustration and relief run through his system when his brother ran his hand against the aching joints in his shoulders. Dean was ignoring him. "_Dean!_"

"Sam! Chill out, it doesn't hurt."

Sam let out an exasperated sigh, "_Bull_. I know it does: You're hands are shaking!"

Sam felt the soft rustle of his shirts being pulled back into place. Dean gripped his brother's arm and gently turned him over onto his back. "No. _You're_ shaking, bro," he said as he took in his brother's flushed, sweat-stained face and reddened, watery eyes. "And you'll probably end up with one _bitch_ of a cough in a couple of hours."

Sam's face scrunched in confusion. "What? How do you know that?"

Dean's response was to tap his brother lightly at the base of his neck. "'Cause I can hear it." The look of confusion doubled impossibly on Sam's face. "Don't hurt yourself, there, buddy boy," Dean chuckled as he pressed his hand over Sam's forehead; the cool metal of Dean's ring pushing into his skin was satisfying to the younger man's heated flesh.

"You're full of it, Dean," Sam breathed the words in an exaggerated rush of oxygen. Dean was looming over him, and he was starting to feel claustrophobic; the air was too heavy, making it difficult to breathe.

"Yeah? And you're more of a bitch when you're sick," Dean said as he pulled back and stepped out of the car. "You know?" Dean started as he opened up the truck, and Sam sat up so he could better hear his brother. "I should have known last night that you were coming down with something," Dean shut the trunk with a loud _clank_, and continued talking as he walked back to Sam, "when you fell asleep on my bed."

A short disbelieving laugh escaped from Sam's lips, but when Dean just stared at him seriously, he blanched. "I did _what_? I did not-," but he stopped short when Dean started pushing him back down onto the seat.

"Save it; and don't piss me off 'cause you know I'll use _that_ as blackmail," Dean grinned, but the smile morphed into a frown when Sam landed a hand on his shoulder, halting him from getting into the back seat with his brother.

"Dude, what's your problem?"

"One, you keep leaning over me and you _will_ break something. You're ribs are bruised and you know it, so don't play dumb: I can see right through it. And two," Sam's eyes glanced at the cars speeding across the highway, "people are gonna get the wrong idea."

Dean immediately turned toward the road as if he forgot it was there; rolling his eyes he held out a glass thermometer to his brother. "Whatever, dude. Here, you know how those work," he said, unintentionally letting exhaustion seep into his voice. Clearing his throat, he recovered and added, "Let's just hurry up and get this done so I can find us a place to stay."

Something tinged inside of Sam's chest as he slipped the thermometer underneath his tongue. Dean was leaning against the door, hand sheathed into a pocket. To anyone else, Dean would have looked comfortable, relaxed; a man simply leaning against his car. But not to Sam; Dean was leaning against the Impala to rest his abused ribs, his hand in his pocket a masked attempt to cradle his sides. The tiny glass rod being slipped from Sam's mouth pulled him from appraising his big brother.

"How bad is it?" Sam asked, hoping that if it wasn't that bad he'd be able to convince his big brother to let him drive.

But that plan was dashed aside when Dean knotted his eyebrows and said, "Not so good. 'Think you caught the flu while you were locked in that cage, Sammy."

Sam's eyes bulged, and he thought, _"Crap,"_ before adding aloud, "You sure?"

Dean locked eyes with his brother before curling a palm around his neck, guiding Sam's head to rest against his leather jacket that he had pillowed against the seat. "After twenty-two years of experience? Yeah, I'm sure." With that, Dean shut the door, leaving his brother in the back. The car rocked as Dean opened the driver-side door; once he slipped behind the steering wheel, and before the older man could reposition the rear-view mirror to face his little brother, Sam caught the flash of pain crawl across Dean's face.

The sight caused the younger man's stomach to drop.

But quarantined in the back of the Impala, there was nothing he could do. Sighing, he pushed his face into the comfort of Dean's jacket.

"_Damn it."_

_

* * *

A/N: One last chapter to go; it's in the works, but not finished. I'm still trying to figure out how to fix them. Constructive reviews welcome. _


	3. Chapter 3

"_Dean!"_

Sam's boots sloshed through the mud caking the ground as he trudged out of the barn, leaving Kathleen to deal with the murderous family's father. Ice-cold rain bit through his thin T-shirt and nipped at the flesh underneath, but the freeze swallowing each vertebral column of his spine did not hamper his quickened pace. Dean was in danger: he didn't have time to slow down; his brother needed him.

Be careful.

The last thing Sam had told his older brother, but being careful hadn't been enough. The youngest Winchester and Kathleen had heard the fight his brother had decked out with the family's brothers: the sound of furniture cracking and bodies tumbling had easily wormed its way out of the cabin's thin walls and into the run-down barn. And when the cabin had gone quiet, and Sam had heard footsteps that didn't belong to his brother scuff over to the barn, the hair on the back of his neck had stood on end. Dean had not only been beaten to hell, his big brother had also been captured.

Thanks to him.

Sam shook himself from his thoughts as he took the country house's steps two at a time. The floorboards gave and creaked under his weight, but stealth wasn't an issue to him now: Dean needed his help _now_; that, and Lee and Jared were both imprisoned in their own sick cages, Kathleen holding the patriarch at gun point. The door handle jiggled against his hand, the latch locked; no lock picks in hand and worried adrenaline burning through his veins, Sam plunged his foot against the door Dean Style, knocking the wooden barrier off of its worn, rusty hinges. Sam's eyes immediately sought out his big brother, but the room was dark, the thick blanket of black coating the room and hindering his vision.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was anxious but powerful as it bounced and vibrated against the frail wooden walls.

No answer.

Sam's fists clenched and an uneasy feeling pressed into his personal space, overshadowing him. The silence painting the air was ominous, heightening Sam's desperation. Willing himself into action, Sam strode quickly into the pitch-black room; his muscles twitched, strong hands ready to tear the premises down to studs if that course of action was what it would take to find his big brother, but he stopped short when a figure hidden in the darkness passed his periphery.

"Dean!" Sam called out, relief coursing through his system as he sprinted towards his brother, but both confusion and caution slowed his step once he realized that Dean had failed to respond to his presence. "Dean?" he tried again, but his big brother remained quiet, unmoving. An audible gulp escaped Sam's throat when his eyes passed over his brother's wrists, bloodied and bruised purple from the rope wound around his flesh. Sam's stomach rolled with guilt as he closed the distance between him and the older man in a matter of seconds.

"_Unconscious. Damn it. 'Must have really beat him all to hell,"_ he thought angrily as he knelt behind the chair that restrained Dean. Working the bindings from his brother's arms, Sam tried to coax him back to consciousness, "Dean? Can you hear me, man? We gotta get out of this place." Sam's eyebrows creased when, after freeing his brother from the rope, Dean's arms flopped lifelessly to the side. The ropes had pinched and cut Dean's skin as Sam had removed them; the pain should have roused the older Winchester to the waking world. "What the hell?" Sam said aloud, a tremble lacing the worried words. Placing a hand on Dean's shoulder, he made a move to firmly jar his brother, but when Dean slumped sideways and tipped from the chair, Sam's heart stopped.

"Dean!" Sam's startled voice broke as he rounded the chair, catching his brother's falling form before it could collide with the floor. Sam grunted as his brother's weight crashed into him; and then he felt it: Dean was cold, Sam's flesh chilled by the icy sensation leaking from his brother's skin. "What-?" Sam breathed out in a shaky puff. Turning his brother's face towards him, Sam felt the hair on his arms stand on end as shock tore through his body; voice box heavy and clogged with disbelief and fear, Sam could only manage a strained and whispered, "Oh, no." Thick, black and red clots of blood pooled in a hollowed-out cavity where Dean's left eye had resided; his throat was slashed. Blood from the opened wound mixed with the blood and brains spilling from his torn and mutilated eye socket.

"_Jess and mom, they're both gone; dad is god knows where. You and me, we're all that's left. So, if we're gonna see this through, we're gonna do it together."_

Dean was gone, killed like his lover and the mother he never knew. But this tragedy was unfathomable: the center of the youngest Winchester's universe lie cold and dead in his arms.

Sam was all that was left.

He was alone.

"No," was all Sam could muster, stunned and nerves fried. Sam's muscles stung from emotional pain, causing his limbs to quiver; the tiny movement had the light that was reflecting off of the blood in Dean's socket shimmering within his skull. Clamping his eyes down against the sight, Sam pulled Dean against his chest, and he felt vomit rise in his throat when hot tissue slipped from Dean's opened socket and onto his shoulder. "Dean," he whimpered as he buried his face into Dean's chilled neck, tears spilling down the older man's pale and lifeless skin.

The sound of floorboards creaking sunk slowly into the younger man's haze-filled consciousness, and in a numbed state he watched a little girl step from the shadowed doorway and into the room. Sam's heart pounded against Dean's non-breathing chest as his eyes took in the sight of her. Blood sprinkled her wrinkled and mud-covered dress, and light glinted from her hand revealing a stained knife held tightly within her grasp. The frenzied grin she shot at him caused Sam to pull Dean's lifeless body closer to him in a futile attempt to protect the brother he had failed to save. His legs twitched under his brother's weight, his frame overpowered with anger and the need to charge the person—_monster_— who had torn Dean from him, but his mind wouldn't allow his body to move: he didn't want to let go of Dean, didn't want to lose physical contact with his brother, his best friend. The child let out a high-pitched and demented laugh as if she heard what Sam had been thinking. Walking fully and confidently into the room, eyes never moving from Sam's face, she let her other hand drop.

Sam blanched.

Dean's eye was fisted in her hand like a slimy, white rubber ball. A flash of white cut through the shadows draped across her face as she bared her teeth at the younger man, her face split open in a complete smile. Locking her eyes with Sam's, she goaded, "That's gotta hurt." In a ruthless twist of her wrist and a flutter of her tiny fingers, she clamped down her fist, crushing Dean's eye and squirting vitreous humour onto Sam's pale face.

Dean sighed.

Sam had been right: as far as Dean was concerned, civilization might as well have been a strange new world and the Impala the Starship Enterprise. A couple of motels had popped up here and there, but those dives looked like they were more likely to give a guy crabs than a comforting place to rest, and that was the last thing Dean needed: Sammy, afflicted with not only the flu, but spruced up on a hefty serving of STI. "That'd be a freakin' nightmare," Dean muttered underneath his breath. Of course, being munched on by a bunch of tiny, blood thirsty parasites that happened to have no sense of privacy is one thing, being hunted by a family of cannibalistic hunters is another. Truth be told, Dean had wanted to leave town as soon as he'd gotten Sam and Kathleen out of those cages, not because of the feds that would be swarming the place, but because he just wanted Sam as far from that town as possible. He wanted to get as far away as possible from the place Sam had been stolen from him. The possibility of catching a case of the crabs aside, those marks of—and used the term lightly—civilization that Dean had rejected had been too close to Minnesota to his liking.

"_As long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you."_

Dean groaned as those unwanted words passed through his brain. Again. "God, next time I'm in Minnesota? It'll be too damn soon," he cursed as he glanced at the rear view mirror. Just as the older brother predicted, his little brother's condition had degenerated in a short amount of time: Sam's face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, indicating that his fever had risen; the way the younger man's chest hitched revealed that he was also becoming congested. Dean's knuckles pushed against his skin as he gripped the steering wheel tighter in aggravation. _"And if I'd been doing my job, Sammy wouldn't be stuck in the back, drowning in his own sweat right now. God knows what kind of germs were swimming at the bottom of that damn cage." _ He paused, rolled his eyes at himself and continued, _"Apparently the flu kind. Somebody sick must'a been stuck in that cage 'fore Sammy."_ Dean crinkled his eyebrows when the untimely and unwanted thought of, _"Virus, not germ. Or is a virus a type of germ?"_ fluttered briefly in-between his ears.

As he pulled the Impala off an exit ramp, the lights of a neon sign announcing the availability of vacant rooms caught his attention; deeming the small motel to be a few steps higher in quality in comparison to the ones he had passed earlier, Dean quickly pulled a B-line across traffic and parked in front of the motel's office.

Dean was in mid-reach for the driver-side handle when he stopped, sending a glance back at his sleeping brother. The anxiety he had felt after finding an empty Impala back in Minnesota flinted through his veins. Even though they were no longer in Minnesota and Jared and Lee were in custody—their father shot by Kathleen—Dean did not want to leave his brother alone in the Impala: he hadn't left his brother's side for long before Sam was up and whisked away by some crazies. The sound of leather crinkling reached Dean's ears as Sam fisted his brother's jacket within his hands in a gesture of unrest, causing Dean's frown to deepen. But taking Sam with him into the lobby was probably not a good idea either; after all, he did have the flu. Caught between two choices, neither of which appealed to the older brother, Dean finally made the decision to leave Sam in the car. Besides, Sam had been stolen while Dean was in the bathroom, and it was not likely that he could justify having Sam wait outside every public restroom for him from now on. Sam being kidnapped while Dean was taking a leak was embarrassing enough. Dean didn't need to make the situation worse by giving Sam some blackmail ammunition to use against him later.

The ping of a water droplet bouncing off the Impala's metal roof announced the presence of rain, signaling to the older brother that he should get a room and stuff Sam safely inside before the downpour drenched the both of them.

Dean's reach for the door handle was interrupted a second time once a garbled half-cough, half-gasp bit into his ear and had him quickly turning towards his brother, but his sides instantly seized up at the abrupt movement, sending him to double over at a weird angle against the steering wheel. "Sonuva_bitch_," Dean cursed out, teeth clenched. Sitting behind the Impala's steering wheel for the past hour had apparently exacerbated his bruised sides, his muscles having tightened after each mile-marker. The sound of Sam shifting against the bench seat pulled Dean's awareness from the pain snaking up his sides, and, taking a deep breath, he eased up, carefully twisting his spine so that one arm was slung over the bench seat, the other braced against the dash, just above the radio.

"Sam? You wakin' up, dude?" Dean asked as he peered over the seat, but his voice trailed off once his eyes locked onto Sam's face. Sam's eyes were moving rapidly beneath his eyelids and his skin was stretched so tight against his knuckles that the joints looked like giant, misshapen pearls. Cautiously leaning an inch closer, Dean picked up his brother's distressed breathing. Dean sighed: Sam was dreaming. _"Most likely about those friggan hillbilly creeps,"_ Dean thought as he watched sweat from his brother's forehead slip down his fevered cheeks. "Alright. Time to wake up, Sammy," Dean called out in an attempt to wake up his brother; Sam had been tormented enough by those hunters already and Dean wasn't about to let them hassle his brother anymore, even if it was in a dream. Despite Dean's voice booming throughout the Impala, the younger sibling did not stir. "Aw, man. Really?" Dean said aloud, exasperated. "Come on, dude—"

"Dean!" Sam's voice was tinged with a disturbing mix of anger and anguish, and Dean's stomach flipped at the sound.

"Sam?" Dean twisted completely in his seat, his vision fuzzing over as white-hot pain flared up his ribs and the burnt skin around his collarbone, his nerves protesting the sudden and hurried change in position. Determined to reach out to his brother, Dean fisted his hair in a death grip with one hand and anchored the other on the bench seat and pulled his body forward, towards his brother. "Sam? Sammy?" Clamping down on Sam's shoulder he barked out, "Hey!"

Sam's lids instantly shot open. Caught somewhere between the waking world and the dark abyss of sleep, the image of Missy's haunting smile whirled within his skull. Dean's mutilated face spun in front of him, the afterimages of his dream mixing with the blurry sight of the upholstery in front of his face. Sam gasped—or tried to. Sinuses clogged and head pounding, he could only manage to let out a choked wheeze. Heart beating against his ribs, he frantically clawed at the sticky mass of vitreous humour running down his face. Repulsed, Sam recoiled, arching his back in an attempt to sit up. He didn't make it, though: letting out a strangled cry, he flopped back down onto the leather beneath him, his joints and lower back freezing against his will. "_No_—Dean!" Sam's hoarse voice pushed past dry, chapped lips.

"Whoa, whoa—easy, Sammy. Easy."

Sam jerked as Dean's low voice yanked him fully into consciousness. Head spinning with relief—_"Just a dream"_— Sam planted both hands on the seat in order to pull himself up, but he was unable to accomplish the task. His shoulders and back were locked, joints unmovable. Aggravation mounted beneath his skin, prickling his nerves. He wanted to see Dean's face, have both of his big brother's big and familiar green eyes—unharmed—staring back at him.

"Dude: you're spine's all twisted up like a friggan pretzel." A firm pressure sunk into Sam's shoulders as Dean worked Sam's frozen joints. Sam let out a curse when a spasm ripped through his muscles, causing him to sink further into the backseat, face pushed firmly into Dean's jacket.

"_Dean_—"

"Sh, sh—_Hey_. I gotcha. Just chill for a minute."

Rolling his eyes against Dean's jacket, Sam shot out his hand, trapping his brother's wrist inside his grip. The physical contact calmed Sam's frazzled nerves and chased the nightmare from his mind. Joints loosed by his big brother's palm, Sam turned his face towards his brother, cheek pressed against the cool leather seat. When Dean's concerned green eyes locked onto his face, Sam felt the knot in his chest untie.

"Sammy?" Although he was making a marked effort trying to mask it, Dean's voice was strained, and sweat born from overexertion and pain peppered his forehead.

With a flick of his wrist, Sam brushed Dean's hand from his back. "Dude—if _you_ don't take it easy, I swear, I'm gonna go ahead and break your ribs just to spite you."

Dean's eyebrows shot up at his brother. "Well, aren't you just a bucket of sunshine."

Sam sent a lame look in his brother's direction, but a coughing fit took him by surprise, causing him to quickly turn from his brother, burying his face beneath folded arms.

"See? 'Told ya I could hear that cough."

"_Congratulations_," Sam muffled sarcastically against Dean's jacket.

The sight of his brother curled against his jacket brought a tiny smile to Dean's lips, reminding him of the child Sam had once been. The splash of another rain drop against the windshield pulled Dean from his flashback. He needed to get them a room. After landing a pat on his brother's shoulder that was meant to both tease and to comfort, Dean gingerly righted himself in his seat. "Alright, dude. I'll be right back. Gonna get us a room."

Through the rear-view mirror, Dean caught Sam bringing himself into a seated position, a look of confusion settled upon his face. "What? What room, where?"

"A room. Here," Dean said as he motioned to the motel office in front of the Impala.

Sam's eyebrows creased, as if he had just noticed the Impala had been parked inside of a lot instead of on the side of the road. Glossed over and reddened eyes moving from the blinking vacancy sign to look at Dean's face via the rear-view mirror, he let out a simple, "Oh."

Dean stared back at his brother blankly. _"Damn. He must be more outta it than I thought," _Dean internally spoke to himself. "Yeah….'Oh,'" Dean repeated as he opened the door and locked the Impala. "I'll be right back. Stay here, dude—don't wanna infect anyone else with your Sammy germs."

Dean couldn't help but grin when he heard Sam's muffled, "Bite me," as he strode up to the motel office's glass doors. Each step he took sent a sting ripping through his sides, but he pushed the pain to the back of his mind. Sam had caught something nasty while he was stuck in that cold, iron cage, and now it was time for Dean to tuck him inside a warm, safe motel room and drug him back to health.

A rumble of thunder vibrated in the distance as soon as Dean parked the Impala in front of their room. "Man, I've got awesome timing," Dean said aloud, but Sam could only offer his brother a perplexed look, unaware of Dean's goal of getting his brother inside before he got soaked with rain. Clearing his throat, Dean put the car in park and tossed his brother the motel keys, "You go on ahead and unlock the door. I'll get the bags." Sam caught the keys easily but didn't say anything in response; instead, he silently appraised his older brother via the rear-view mirror, and, apparently finding what he wanted, eased himself across the seat and out of the car. Dean's eyebrows had risen slightly at his brother's easily surrendered compliance, but he shrugged it off. Opening the driver-side door, and mindful of his bruised ribs, he made decent time in striding to the back of the car and opening the trunk. He frowned, stealing a glance at their supplies. _"Gonna hafta hit up a drug store,"_ he thought to himself, but was knocked out of his musing when one of Sam's arms suddenly invaded the trunk, snaking both Dean's and his own duffle bags out of the crowded compartment.

"Dude! I told you to go inside."

"No, you told me to unlock the door," Sam said as he tossed the motel key back at Dean, "Now I'm getting the bags."

"'Knew that'd been too easy," Dean muttered grimly underneath his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing," Dean said as he made a swipe for the bags, but Sam dodged him, clearly expecting the attack. "Dude, _c'mon_, you're exhausted. You're so hunched over that if you put anymore weight on you you're gonna fall over."

"Yeah? And if you keep it up your ribs are actually going to break. Dean, you can't keep ignoring that you're hurt; you're gonna make it worse—"

A cool splash of water broke on Sam's forehead, cutting off his words; the sound of rain pittering against the black top had Dean shutting the trunk instantly and pushing his brother across the sidewalk and into their room. The quickened and somewhat sudden movement sent Sam's breath rapidly puffing in and out of his chest, throwing him into a coughing fit. The pressure on Sam's shoulders eased as Dean slipped the duffle bags from his frame with one hand, placing the other on Sam's back as the younger man worked his way through the coughs racking his system. Dean waited until his brother quieted down before he asked, "You wanna take a shower or you jus' gonna hit the hay?"

"Tired," was all Sam said and all he needed to say. The next thing Sam knew he was being guided down onto a warm, somewhat soft bed, the mattress beneath him creaking under his weight. His joints ached and the exhaustion nesting heavily above his eyes started to pull down his lids, but a strong hand gripping his jaw shook him from the hold sleep had on him.

"Hey, don't black out on me now, kiddo. 'Gotta see how boiled that head of yours' gotten," Dean said as he slipped the cool, glass rod past Sam's chapped lips. Keeping his hand curled around Sam's chin and most of his jaw, he tilted his little brother's head up, examining his flushed, sweat-stained face and irritated, glossy eyes. "'Head still botherin' ya?" Face still trapped within Dean's hand, Sam could only manage a slight, jerky nod as an answer. Slipping the thermometer from Sam's mouth, Dean pulled a bottle of Ibuprofen out of his duffle and popped the lid, handing his brother a couple of pills. "Here. This should bring down the fever and help with the headache." Dean felt Sam's hand tremble as the younger brother took the pills from his outstretched palm.

"Thanks, Dean." Sam's raspy voice made Dean's eyebrows crinkle; his brother's throat was already becoming raw.

"Yeah, no problem," Dean said as he bent over to pull off Sam's shoes, but his brother planted a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from reaching his boots.

"Dean, I was being serious back in the car; let up on your sides or they'll take longer to heal." The pills in the plastic bottle rattled when Sam tossed the pain killers at his brother. "You need to take some of those." Reaching for the empty ice bucket placed on the nightstand, he added, "I'll go get you some ice."

The sound of the pill bottle hitting the floor echoed briefly through the small motel room, and, before Sam's mind could register what happened, Dean swopped Sam's feet onto the bed, flipping his brother over from his seated position to lie flat on his back. The sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness down upon him and flipped his stomach, but he was still able to cough out an annoyed, "Dean! What the hell, man—"

"You're not going anywhere, Sam," Dean said, pulling off his brother's shoes as if to prove his point. "And I don't need the ice. Seriously, dude. Just take it easy, huh?"

"_Dean_—" Sam's voice broke off as another coughing fit bubbled up from his lungs and tore from his esophagus. A strong hand immediately wrapped around the back of his head and an open water bottle was pushed to his lips; Sam's throat constricted reflexively, swallowing the water down, the semi-warm liquid soothing his irritated throat.

A weary sigh passed through Dean's lips; wanting Sam's attention averted from his sore ribs, Dean made a point to drop the issue while Sam, occupied with a mouth-full of water, was unable to voice protest. "Halls or Ricola?"

The look Sam shot him quirked the corner of Dean's lip up slightly. Waving a hand halfheartedly towards the duffle bags, he clarified, "M'short on what you're gonna need. 'Gotta make a supply run."

Sam finished off half the bottle with a wet gulp, placing the remaining water on the nightstand situated between their beds. He let out a cautious, shaky breath, obviously trying to ward off another bout of coughing. Letting his head sink into the firm pillow below him, he said, "I don't know. You pick." Sam paused and then motioned to Dean's sides, "Pick up some Icy Hot while you're out. One of those patches might help a little."

Dean's eyes rolled before he could stop them. "_Dammit, Sam. Would you let up on me so I can take care of you?"_ Dean thought heatedly as he pulled his car keys from his pocket and made his way across the room. Another wave of uneasiness crashed into the older brother once he curled his fist around the motel door's rusty handle. Turning back towards his brother, he gave Sam a once over, as if convincing himself that the kid would be okay by himself. Satisfied by his appraisal, he opened the door and added before stepping outside, "You leave this room I'm gonna owe you a serious beat down." The muscles in Sam's jaw twitched, but before Sam could get a word in, Dean shut the door, locking his brother safely inside.

_

* * *

And, I'm splitting up the last chapter into two since I wanted to add more comfort in it and give them enough time to work things out. That and I just finished this on my day off, so I figured I'd post while I had the chance ;) Constructive reviews welcome. _


	4. Chapter 4

Sam stared at the white pill bottle as it rolled from side to side at the edge of Dean's bed. The rumble of the Impala's engine filled the small room suddenly and then faded, signaling Dean's exit. Sam listened to the room return to its silent state before huffing out a ragged and weary burst of oxygen. His muscles still ached and he couldn't breathe well, his airways clogged and his lungs heavy. The Ibuprofen Dean had given him had already started to sooth the headache that was pummeling his brain; the sweat leaking from his pores had lessened, the fever burning his skin temporarily subdued by the analgesic. But he didn't have time to rest right now, not when he had a job to do: if Dean wasn't going to take care of himself, Sam was going to have to take care of things for him.

"He'll probably end up getting that Icy Hot for me instead of himself, too. Damn jerk. Might as well make him his own," Sam said aloud to the empty room as he carefully eased himself into a sitting position. Every nerve in his being was screaming for sleep: the flu virus swimming through his blood was working overtime, planting seeds of fatigue inside every cell of his body. Sam's hair whipped side to side as he shook his head in an attempt to replace the feeling of inertia pestering him with a sense of alertness. It didn't work. Instead, a bout of dizziness hit him once he stood up, leaving him to fight through the slight delirium as he treaded tiredly into the bathroom.

The rush of warm water from the tap was uncomfortable to his fevered skin, but at the same time it was strangely satisfying as it ate at the chills attacking his frame. Soaping up his hands and washing them clean, Sam stole a glance at himself in the bathroom's mirror. Sam cringed at the sight. His skin was pale, but the dark purple circles that were splashed underneath his eyes and the bright red flush painting his cheeks gave him the appearance of a creepy, haunted china doll.

A tickle squirmed its way into Sam's throat, pulling his attention from his reflection; swallowing convulsively, the younger man fought the urge to cough. The fewer germs he put into the air, the less chance Dean had of catching his flu, said chances being extremely high already. _"That's the last thing Dean needs right now. All that coughing would just mess with his ribs," _Sam thought as he swiped two hand towels from the bathroom's rack and made his way back into the main room. Pulling the heating pad out of a bag, Sam drew his brother's sheets back, placing the pad on the mattress and plugging it into the wall. Scooping up the fallen pill bottle, he gently shook a couple out onto a napkin and placed the painkillers and a bottle of water on the nightstand.

"Just need to fill up the ice bucket and I'll be done," Sam rambled to himself, sitting on the edge of his bed so he could lace up his boots. The familiar task was more difficult than usual, his watery eyes distorting his vision, but he managed. Wrapping the bottom half of the ice bucket with one of the hand towels from the bathroom, he made his way out of the room in search of the ice machine.

Sam's breath heaved in his chest as he trudged down the motel's open hallway. The air had been cooled by the rain and the drop in temperature sent stinging sensations crawling in his throat, causing him to double his efforts to choke down another coughing fit. His stride was slowing with each step, the chilled and rainy weather taking its toll on his already taxed airways, but Sam's shoulders straighten once he spotted the ice machine. _"Well, at least it isn't too far from our motel room,"_ he thought as he ducked the ice bucket under the dispenser, shivering as rainwater seeped through the cracks in the motel's awning and sprinkled his shoulders and back.

Sam let out an unstable breath as he placed the now-full ice bucket next to the pills he had set out for his older brother. Quickly wrapping some of the ice in a washcloth, he placed the homemade icepack on top of the open ice bucket. Mission accomplished, Sam flopped over onto his mattress and, burying his face under his arms, let loose the string of coughs that had been building up in his throat. The fit caused his already sensitive eyes to sting and water flooded from his tear-ducks to sooth the prickly sensation. A couple of sneezes punctuated the end of the coughing spell, and a chill from his rain-dotted shirt wisped over his body. "_Well, at least the flu isn't caused by being out in cold weather." _Sighing, Sam turned over onto his back and tore off his damp shirt, tossing it at his open duffel. Body worn out and joints stiff, the younger man let his frame sink into the semi-comfortable mattress beneath him, satisfied with the preparations he had laid out for his hurting older brother.

Flu-born exhaustion pulled his consciousness into the silence of sleep, rendering him oblivious to the missed call banner blinking on his cell phone.

"Damn bitch. I knew he wouldn't stay in the room," Dean said underneath his breath, flipping his phone closed.

Dean had been back on the road with his brother for a while now, hunting and searching for their father. Neither of them had caught the flu during that time, and while Sam was away at Stanford, Dean had not been as steady as he should have been with keeping cold and flu remedies stocked. But a few years' hiatus due to Sam's participation in an institution of higher learning had not left Dean inept when it came to dealing with illnesses. Dean was Sam's caretaker; being separated for a few years would not hamper his ability to know what his brother needed in order for him to regain his health. After all, Dean himself got sick, and even though he and John had, at times, taken separate hunts, he was also there to watch over his father when he fell ill. Needless to say, it had not taken him long to pick up what he would need in order to take care of Sam.

It was, however, taking him a long time getting back to the motel. The roads were slick and dreary, wet weather seemed to attract insane drivers to asphalt just as a light beckons a moth to its grave. After being cut off for a second time, and shooting the bird more than once, Dean finally made it back to the motel in one piece, the Impala's tires squealing as she sped into the parking space in front of their room. The room Sam never should have left. Grabbing the plastic bags he had set in the passenger's seat, he thought, _"Damn it, dude. You know better than to go out in weather like this when you're sick."_ A sharp pain cut into his side as he eased out of the Impala, causing him to still his movements. Standing next to the opened driver-side door, Dean could see over the bench seat and into the Impala's back. His brother had left his leather jacket in the car. After waiting a beat to regain his composure as the pain in his sides dwindled, Dean swiped his jacket from the back before slamming the Impala shut and trekking towards the door.

He was pissed that Sam had done exactly what he told him not to do. Locked in a motel room, Sam was safer than walking around in a parking lot, like he had been in Minnesota.

"_I'm gonna kick his ass,"_ Dean thought as he swung open the door.

Dean's eyes reflexively landed on the form of his brother. Sam was lying on his back, half on and half off of the bed, as if he had been sitting and decided to lie down in the same spot. His shirt was discarded and laying on top of his open duffle. Dean frowned when he saw that Sam's hair was not sticking to the sweat on his face, but was actually somewhat damp. An annoyed burst of air rushed past Dean's lips at the sight. _"Perfect. Watch your fever spike now. Good job, there, pal,"_ Dean internally cursed at his brother, but his mental rant died quickly once he stepped further into the room. His bed was turned down and a heating pad was placed neatly atop the mattress. Two painkillers were aligned on the nightstand; next to the pills was a sealed bottle of water. A full ice bucket, along with a makeshift icepack, was placed parallel to the pills and water so that the arrangement of the three items formed a triangle. "You always were OCD," he muttered as he placed the plastic grocery bags onto his bed and pulled out the cough suppressant he had bought for Sam.

The bed dipped slightly when Dean sat next to his brother. "Sam," Dean said, landing a light jab onto his brother's shoulder. "Hey—wake up."

Sam's lids parted slightly at Dean's prodding, but he didn't fully wake up: before Dean could completely free his little brother from the tight grip that sleep had on him, Sam's coughing reflex kicked into gear, throwing him into a coughing fit that burned his throat and had his lungs starving for air. Hovering just beneath cognizant awareness, the feeling of suffocation sent confusion ripping throughout the younger man's veins, and he automatically started curling in on himself in order to brace against the panic bombarding his system. A strong hand wrapping around the back of his neck stopped him from folding in on himself, and he felt his head being tilted backwards; the sudden change in angle sent Sam's brain bumping against the back of his skull. He gnashed his teeth against the debilitating dizziness hounding him, and his clamped lips pushed the coughing spell back into his esophagus, causing his chest to heave while the fire in his lungs doubled in intensity.

"Sam! Open your mouth."

Sam unconsciously parted his lips when Dean's words cut into his sleep-clouded cognition, but his head reflexively jerked back when he felt something cool hit the back of his throat. A numb sensation quickly spread over his tongue and esophagus, and the burn in his lungs faded as he instinctively drew in deep, greedy gulps of air. Coughing bout over and the fire burning inside of his lungs extinguished, Sam stilled, and Dean realized that he was going to lose the tug-o-war he and sleep were decking out with Sam. Dean tossed the cough suppressant spray onto his bed, but before he could open his mouth to rouse his brother, he felt Sam shiver against him.

"Cold…"

It was obvious Sam was sleep-talking to himself, but that did not matter to Dean. Giving Sam a firm shake, Dean gruffed out, "Yeah? That's because you went outside in the rain, you dumbass."

Sam's eyebrows scrunched and his eyelids fluttered. "Huh?"

Rolling his eyes, Dean gave his brother another shake, and said, louder, "You went out in the rain, college-boy. That's why you're cold."

The pseudo-conversation started to turn the gears in Sam's head, and before he realized it, he was staring up at Dean's concerned face, his head pillowed in his older brother's lap. He quickly noticed that the skin around Dean's eyes was pinched, a sign of discomfort and strain. "Dean. You take the pills I put out for you?"

Even though Sam's voice was heavy with sleep, the impatience lacing his words was unmistakable, and the tone caused Dean's concern to fade, leaving in its wake the annoyance he had first felt when he'd realized that Sam had left the relative safety of their motel room. Gripping Sam by the shoulders and easing him off of his lap, Dean slipped off the bed and said, "Dude. 'You jonesing for a fight?" Dean tossed Sam's legs onto the mattress a second time, the change in position causing his brother to face-plant into his pillow; pain shot up Dean's ribs at the movement and a grunt formed in his throat, but he swallowed it down. Not wanting Sam to notice, he quickly turned from his kid brother and took in a couple of deep breaths in order to soothe his sides; once the throbbing abated, he started fishing through the grocery bags he had dumped onto his bed. "'Cause you're about to get one," he finished gravely as he sat back down next to his brother, Icy Hot patch in hand.

Sam glared at the Icy Hot patch and thought, _"Knew he'd only get it for me,"_ before deadpanning, "Your ribs would break in half before you'd even get a swing in."

Sam grunted out a pained and surprised gasp when a loud _whap_ echoed throughout the small motel room, the Icy Hot patch landing hard on the small of his back via Dean's heavy palm. Clearly not expecting the insidious attack, Sam gritted his teeth and involuntarily jerked, fighting the urge to knee his older brother in the stomach. _"You're lucky your ribs are busted or I'd nail you one right in the gut…" _he internally cursed, muscles crawling against the stinging sensation that was blossoming inside the nerves dotting his back.

"Huh. Would ya look at that? Ribs're still in one piece."

"You're a _dick_—"

"Yeah? _You're_ a stubborn ass." Dean's voice was harsh, and Sam tensed when Dean placed his hand on Sam's back again, but he loosened when Dean started smoothing the Icy Hot patch across his skin. Feeling another chill run through his brother's flesh, Dean added, "I told you to stay in the motel room, not go out in the rain and get some ice."

Sam dug his face from the semi-fluffy enclave of his pillow and turned his head towards his brother. "I told you I was going to get some."

Dean's eyes narrowed and he drew his lips into a thin, pink line; he did not like having his own words thrown back at him. "You're a real smart ass, you know that? There's a difference between me going out to get ice with a few bruises, and you going out in the rain _with the flu_."

"Dean, c'mon, man," Sam's voice was slow, thick with fatigue. "The cold and rain can't give someone the flu. You know that. And the ice machine isn't even that far from our room."

"Sam, you already _have_ the flu. You're tellin' me that screwing around out there won't make it worse?"

Dean was surprised when Sam answered him with silence, the younger man giving the older brother a remarkably pathetic look that was most likely a failed attempt to stab his brother with The Bitch Face. Sam possessed an independent streak that rivaled that of anyone's Dean had ever known, including their father; Sam's lack of response and diminished strong willed nature revealed how depleted the flu had left his baby brother in both body and mind. His energy was obviously drained. Dean picked up the glossy overtone of Sam's irritated, raw eyes before he turned his head from his brother and returned his face into the warm, dark depths of his pillow. Deflating a little, Dean continued to needlessly flatten the Icy Hot patch over his brother's back, the gentle motion a not-so-successfully masked gesture aimed at comforting his brother, but he stilled when Sam puffed an aggravated sigh against his mattress and mumbled something unintelligible into his pillow.

Dean's eyebrows creased, unable to understand his brother when he had a mouth full of synthetic stuffing. "_Hey_," Dean nudged Sam's shoulder and rolled him partially onto his back, pulling his face away from the bed. "'You sayin' something?"

Sam's chest suddenly expanded before he could answer, and quickly shrugging Dean's hand from his shoulder, he let loose a string of wet sneezes that had his eyes welling up and trailing water down his pale face in seconds flat. Catching his breath and unfolding his arms from his face, he answered, "It was the least I could do."

Dean had backed up considerably while his brother had been busy expelling ungodly amounts of snot from his system, but when his brother's tired words cut through his ears and sunk into his brain, he immediately pushed himself closer to his baby brother, his thigh parallel to his kid brother's trunk. Dipping his head lower, towards his brother, he asked, "What'd you say?"

Sam instantly knew that he was treading on dangerous ground, but he also knew that he could hold his own against his brother if pushed, even if he was sick: he'd tried to apologize to Dean the other night; he might as well try again while he had his brother's attention. Signing, he repeated, "I _said_ it was the least I could do."

"For…_what_?"

Sam's eyes fell from Dean's face and moved to his older brother's side. Following the path of Sam's gaze, Dean straightened, a look of exasperation falling across his face. Leveling his voice, he warned, "Sam, that wasn't your fault."

"It isn't? Dean. Last time I checked, _I_ was the one who got jumped by those freaks."

"Sam—"

"_No_, Dean. You're not going to tell me if I hadn't gotten jumped, none of this would have happened," Sam said as he waved an arm angrily in the direction of Dean's ribs. His voice shuddered out the last word, voice box unable to handle the rising timber of his tone.

Dean grabbed Sam's flailing arm and pushed it down and away from his ribs, tucking it along his side. Locking eyes with Sam and tightening the grip he had on his little brother's arm, he said, "Sam, let it go, I'm done talking about it. I said it wasn't your fault. I don't wanna hear it."

"Dean, you didn't want to hear it yesterday—"

"_Enough_!"

Dean's fist slammed into the nightstand so quickly that neither he nor Sam had enough time to register that Dean had let go of Sam's forearm. The violent maneuver shook his ribs, and Dean buckled slightly forward when the sensation of knifes sliced up each of his sides. The air filling his lungs froze, the spasms attacking his muscles stopping him from expanding his chest.

Sam immediately stilled, combating the urge to jump from the bed, grab the painkillers he had set out for his brother, and shove them down his brother's throat: any sort of movement could jar his brother further, and he did not want to increase his brother's pain. _"And you call me the stubborn ass,"_ Sam thought at he watched Dean's face—which he had turned from his brother— flush red with both pain and embarrassment.

The quiet coating the room's atmosphere was tainted when Dean let loose a shaky exhale, the pain subsiding enough so that he could take a breath.

"'You done convincing me that you're not hurt? Or that you don't need help?"

Dean's fist unraveled and lifted from the nightstand, and he swiped the abused appendage across his face. He felt insecure enough that his kid brother had been marked game while he had bled his bladder, dick in hand; Dean did not want to discuss the issue further, since there was nothing to discuss: he'd screwed up his job and now Sam was blaming himself for his own mistake.

"_As long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you." _

An exasperated, yet resigned growl cut through Dean's throat. "Knock it off, would ya?" Dean could feel his defenses solidify as hard as stone around him, the need to escape from the present conversation bordering on overpowering. "Damn it, Sam. This isn't about you," he added in frustration as he pushed himself from Sam's bed and towards his own, creating an imagined distance from the conversation by forming a real one with his brother.

Silence settled upon the tiny motel room again, but Dean could practically hear the gears turning inside of Sam's head. Sick or not, his little brother was nothing but a freakishly giant, human-sized brain. Dean knew it was only a matter of minutes before Sam opened his mouth and started yapping again, so he tried to buy himself some time by rummaging around the supplies he had gotten Sam, searching for something he could use to permanently seal his brother's mile-a-minute cakehole.

"Dean… you know you can't make me wait outside the bathroom for you from now on, right?"

Not expecting _that _response, Dean immediately turned towards his brother, surprise coloring his face. _"Sonuvabitch, way to live up to bein' psychic, pal,"_ Dean thought as he dipped his head forward and shrugged his shoulders downward, silently and defensively asking, _"What?" _

Lifting his hand towards the motel window and then letting the limb drop softly back to the mattress, Sam said, "It's not about me getting ice, you didn't want me getting close to the parking lot, like in Minnes—" Sam's jaw snapped shut when Dean wrapped his hand underneath Sam's chin. Startled and annoyed by the gesture, and almost biting his tongue in the process, Sam clutched his brother's wrist in-between his fingers, ready to throw his brother's hand off, but stopped as soon as Dean waved the tiny plastic bottle of eye drops in front of his face.

"Easy, tiger. Your eyes look like that beach ball Ben Stein was holding in that commercial."

Sam halfheartedly rolled his eyes at his brother's deflection. Tossing Dean's hand from his face, Sam eased up the bed and leaned against the headboard, knowing that his brother would be unable to lean down to give him the drops, but would be stubborn enough to try. Placing his hand on Sam's cheek, Dean tilted his head back and dropped the solution carefully into each of his brother's eyes. Sam stared, unblinking, into his big brother's face as he worked, and Dean could practically feel Sam's gaze bore into his psyche. It was unsettling to say the least, and wondering what Sam could see there, Dean found himself finishing the task quicker than he had intended.

Twisting the cap onto the bottle, Dean was stopped from tossing it back into its respective grocery bag when he felt a tug on his shirt. Looking down, he saw that Sam had entangled his fingers into the fabric, and his mind raced back to a time when a fun-sized Sammy would yank and pull on his shirt, whining to be picked up.

"Dean, those freaks couldn't hunt me 'cause you got there."

Those words tore Dean from his flashback and landed him into the present. Sam was looking at him, his watery eyes embedded deep within a pale face streaked with spilt saline solution and natural salt water. The knot in his chest loosed, although not completely: Sam's words were laced with unspoken need, and above everything, Dean needed to be needed, especially by family and most specifically by Sam. Sighing, Dean reached over and picked up the painkillers on the nightstand and popped them into his mouth, swallowing them down dry. Glancing back at his brother, Dean saw that the corner of Sam's lip was raised slightly. Grunting, Dean said, "Spare me, would ya?" as he planted his hand on Sam's forehead and gently slipped it down his baby brother's face, wiping the saltwater and eye drops from his cheeks. Dean smiled internally when he felt Sam relax fully underneath his hand, knowing that he had lifted a weight from his brother's shoulders as well.

Clearing his throat and wiping the wetness covering his palm onto his jeans, he asked, "Your stomach still bothering you? I bought you some tomato soup if you're up to it; skipped out on the rice since there's nothing to make it with."

"It's not bothering me much anymore, but I'll skip it anyway. Thanks, though."

Nodding, Dean slipped Sam's boots off. "All right. C'mon. Lie down and get some rest," Dean said as he somehow managed to pull down Sam's comforter while the younger man was still situated on top of it. Snagging his leather jacket, he draped it over his kid brother's back and chuckled when Sam wrapped it tightly around his shoulders, partially covering his face within the worn leather. Dean dipped his fingers underneath the jacket and curled his palm around his brother's neck, keeping his hand planted on Sam's warm skin even after the kid's eyes drooped and his lids closed.

"Dean?"

"Hm?"

"We should have gone to Vegas."

Dean smiled. Apparently, the apple really doesn't fall too far from the tree.

_

* * *

A/N: As you have probably already noticed, I made a mistake in the title. "Stray" is technically supposed to be "fall," but I like this wording more in comparison. _

_This took me a long time to finish, basically since I had a hard time trying to fix the situation, and I still don't think its up to par; but if I kept trying to change it, I probably wouldn't have ever gotten it posted, and I never want to leave a story unfinished. _

_Hope you guys liked it!_

_Constructive reviews are welcomed. _


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